by Luanne Rice
Rumer winced. Her father opened his mouth to continue, but then caught the raw look in her eye and hesitated for just a second.
“Perhaps Michael will turn out to be a true Point boy,” Rumer said, taking a sip of coffee, watching two white Long Island ferries crossing paths far out in the Sound.
“We'll have the summer to see. That's how long they'll be here,” Sixtus said.
Rumer sipped her coffee. The caffeine delivered a punch, and her pulse was racing again. An entire summer of avoiding Zeb. Her mind flipped to Edward, but instead of the familiar ease of mind that came from thinking of him up there in the hazy hills of Black Hall, she felt a jolt of shame about her behavior.
“All I can think about is how short summer is—just one hundred days—and how much there is to accomplish,” her father said.
“It's summer, Dad,” Rumer said, laughing. “Isn't summer about what there's not to accomplish?”
“We'll see….”
The sun had risen over the eastern bay, shining hotly through the white pines and oak trees. Sixtus set down his coffee mug and picked up his paintbrush. Squinting in the bright sunshine, Rumer checked her watch and then looked up. The chimney sweep had arrayed his brushes on the roof; they looked like a line of bristly crows.
“You must be almost finished teaching your vet class—in the home stretch,” her father said. “These last days of school were always my favorite. Launching a new group of seniors… has Edward chosen the recipient of his mother's scholarship yet?”
“Dorothy Jackson,” Rumer said.
“She must like cows,” he chuckled.
“What are you getting at, Dad?” she asked.
“Absolutely nothing, darling. Cows are lovely animals; chickens superlative birds. But over the years, Edward has proven himself rather single-minded, hasn't he? He only chooses applicants with a bovine bent—grow up on a farm, want to be a farmer, or hit the road…”
“His mother wanted to preserve Black Hall's agrarian heritage,” Rumer said. “All those beautiful farms are disappearing so fast… they're being subdivided, sold off into little lots. We take them for granted—even the Black Hall Impressionists all used to go up there to paint. They're part of us all…”
“I don't deny that,” he said. “Not at all. Just that… farms are Edward's passion, not yours. Maybe it's time for him to administer his mother's scholarship on his own.”
“You don't like him, do you?”
“If you loved him, it would be different. But I think you should get on with your life,” her father said. “And be happy.”
Rumer blinked, stung. Happy… she had always wanted that, and she had always wanted to be loved. “I'm not sure it's for you to say how that should work for me,” she said.
“No, I'm just your father,” he said. “I only know you better than anyone else in the world.”
Rumer stood there, feeling unsteady. Just then they heard a car engine. Cresthill Road was a dead end, and quiet at this time of day. Most residents rode their bikes or walked up to the post office for the mail and newspapers. Turning their heads, Rumer and her father saw a large Jaguar slide into sight. It parked at the foot of the hill of the Mayhews’ old house, and two people got out.
“The new owners?” Rumer asked.
Her father nodded, not speaking.
They watched as the couple—perhaps in their early forties, both tan and blond—climbed out of the car and began to walk up the crumbling stone steps.
“It's welcome time,” her father said. Laying down his painting things, he wiped his hands on his khakis and led the way. He and Rumer walked through their yard, under the bramble-laden archway, past the stone angel, into the Mayhews’ old yard. Two rabbits, including the recently released one, grazed as they approached.
“Hello there,” Sixtus called, and the rabbits bolted into their hole under the azalea bush. “Welcome!”
The couple stopped, startled. Rumer noticed the man's polo shirt and cleanly pressed chinos, his hair slicked back in the Wall Street look of a few years back. His wife was expensively coiffed and clad. She wore a large diamond ring. Without knowing quite why, Rumer's heart sank a little.
“I'm Sixtus Larkin, your neighbor,” her father said. “And this is my daughter, Dr. Rumer Larkin.”
“Hello,” the man said. “I'm Tad Franklin. My wife, Vanessa.”
“Very nice to meet you. We're happy to know you!”
“You're a doctor?” he asked.
“A vet,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, dismissing her. Rumer got that sometimes from people who didn't have pets, didn't love animals, who thought that veterinarians were somehow not real doctors.
Rumer smiled, shaking the couple's hands, wondering why they were looking over her head instead of into her eyes. “Welcome to the Point.”
“The Point's quite a place,” her father chuckled. “As I'm sure you already know. If you ever have any questions, or if there's anything we can do to help you find your way, just give a holler. We don't stand much on ceremony around here. If you see an open window, just call in!”
“What kind of work are you doing on your house?” Tad Franklin asked, squinting as he pointed up on the roof.
“Work?” Sixtus asked.
“Improvements,” Vanessa said, gesturing at the varnish on Sixtus's hands.
“Oh, this?” He laughed. “I'm getting the boat ready to go in the water. That's all. Happens every year. And up there”—he gestured up at the roof—-”that's Tim Hanson, the best chimney sweep around. I recommend him highly.”
“Why do you ask?” Rumer heard herself saying. “About improvements?”
“Well, we're planning some ourselves,” Tad said. “Naturally.”
“Naturally?” Rumer asked, her heart sinking a little more, wondering what there was to improve.
Now the Franklins fell silent. Perhaps they had just decided Rumer and Sixtus were nosy neighbors and they wanted to keep their plans to themselves. Rumer could even understand—sort of. She felt absurdly proprietary about the land; she had grown up here, and every ounce of love she had had sprung from the soil. What kind of “improvements” could they possibly make anyway? A new deck, maybe. Or perhaps they— after all these years—would change the color. Paint it white or gray, instead of dark green.
Taking their cue, she and her father shook the Franklins’ hands once again, wishing them well. Then, limping through the tall grass into their own yard, Six-tus led Rumer back toward the old boat.
“That Jaguar's not a good sign,” her father said in a low voice.
“Why not?” she asked, intuitively agreeing with him.
“They have a lot of money to spend on ‘improvements.’ “
“But let's hope they don't see a lot to improve,” she said, kissing her father good-bye for the day, trying to push aside how upset he'd made her by his comments about Edward.
Zeb sat at his makeshift desk, surrounded by satellite photographs, documents, charts, and books. Although this trip to Hubbard's Point was supposed to be a vacation, he had set himself the large task of organizing his last ten missions. NASA was giving him a great opportunity: After all his years of service in the sky, they were letting him establish his own department at the newest research center in California, between Scripps and Cal-tech. The least he could do was show up prepared.
His mind wouldn't cooperate. Concentrate, he told himself. The words ran together; the photos looked like Rorschach ink blots.
Let's see, he thought, staring at ink blot number one.
Right there in the satellite photo, an image of Rumer materialized. Rumer at the wedding in her sleeveless blue dress, her arms taut and tan. Now other images came through: the way she had cried during the vows, the defiance in her eyes as she'd driven off with her stuffed-shirt boyfriend.
“What a jerk,” Zeb said out loud as ink blot number two revealed the man's smug smile.
He worked for a few hours, taking calls from people on his
staff. One reported a problem with the lenses of his new telescope, and Zeb spent twenty minutes on the phone with the manufacturer in Switzerland. What the hell was he doing? He felt so detached from the new observatory, his great new lab. He got so frustrated, he almost pulled the phone out of the wall.
Trying to direct this operation from so far away was crazy—and why was he here anyway? That was the real question. Work had always served him well. It was his personal life that dragged him down. Rumer obviously wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he could leave Michael here with Rumer and Sixtus, and he could get straight to work. So what if he was a burned-out refugee from the astronaut corps? The observatory would welcome him with open arms. His life would be a lot less complicated that way.
A knock startled him. Michael had gone out somewhere—had he forgotten they didn't need a key here at the Point? Crossing the room, he opened the door. Sixtus stood there wearing his paint clothes, stooped over, smelling of varnish. Cradled in his arms was a big pineapple.
“Here,” Sixtus said, thrusting the pineapple into Zeb's hands.
“What's this for?”
“It's a symbol of welcome. Perhaps you've forgotten. All the seafarers in Clarissa's family used to bring pineapples home from the South Seas, and their wives would stick them over the front doors as a sign they'd returned safely, that friends were welcome to stop by.”
“I remember,” Zeb said stiffly “I thought you said welcome at dinner the other night.”
“That was just for Rumer and Michael. This is between us. I figured we have some stuff we need to get straight.”
“Come on in,” Zeb said, standing aside. His ex-father-in-law limped past, straight out to the screened porch. After a lifetime of living here, he knew this cottage—like every other one on the Point—as if it were his own. Wincing as he settled into the wicker rocker, he let out a sigh.
“You okay, Sixtus?” Zeb sank into a chair next to him.
“Goddamn arthritis,” he said. “Used to be fine on summer days; now it's there all the time.”
“I'm sorry. That must be tough.”
“Tough on Rumer.” Sixtus scowled. “She does too much as it is; next thing, she'll be helping me tie my shoes.”
“I'm sure she wouldn't mind,” Zeb said.
But Sixtus's scowl just deepened as he stared at the twisted hands in his lap. Then, lifting his eyes, he gazed at the bay.
“There's Quinn, pulling her pots,” Sixtus said, watching the small lobster boat go from buoy to buoy. The young girl was expert at her job: She'd hook the buoy, haul the line, check the pot, throw back the small ones, bucket the keepers, and move on. Zeb and Sixtus watched as if it were a ballet being put on for their enjoyment. After a moment, Zeb's gaze drifted to the rocks, where he saw Michael sitting still, watching as well.
“What can I do for you?” Zeb asked.
Sixtus rocked slowly for another minute, in no hurry to answer. When he did, he looked Zeb straight in the eye.
“What are you doing here?” Sixtus asked.
“We came for Dana's wedding.”
“Bullshit,” Sixtus said. “No offense, but bullshit. Dana Underbill's not the first Point friend to get married. You and Elizabeth were invited to Lily Underbill's wedding, and you didn't come—didn't come to her funeral either. You didn't come to Halsey's wedding, or Paul's, or Mamie's. So what brings you back now?”
“Time for a vacation, Sixtus,” Zeb said. “Everyone needs a break sometime.”
“Too bad you couldn't have taken one while you were still married to Elizabeth.”
“You think that would have saved our marriage?” Zeb asked. “Me taking more vacations?”
“Might have helped. Couldn't have hurt. Every time I talked to her, it sounded like you'd rather be up in the stars than home with her and Michael.”
“I never wanted to go away from Michael,” Zeb said. “I signed on as a mission specialist, I had to do what they told me. That was my job.”
Had Sixtus noticed the omission? If so, he didn't let on.
“Being away was just a condition of the operation, Sixtus. You don't just call from the space station and say you want to get off.”
“What were you doing there in the first place? You weren't at NASA to be an astronaut—you were a specialist in interpreting satellite photos. At least that's what you told Elizabeth.”
“Circumstances change. People change, Sixtus,” Zeb said, not wanting to blurt out that he'd gone in part to get away from the man's daughter. “Did you think I'd say no when they offered me the chance to fly?”
“Maybe you should've.”
“The marriage was in trouble before—”
Sixtus didn't speak, but his lips tightened. Zeb knew this was rough territory for the old man, and he regretted saying anything. At least he'd held back from saying “It was in trouble before it started.” Everyone knew that.
“Look,” Zeb said, wanting to make peace. “You know I grew up wanting to be an astronaut, right? You must know that—your daughters teased me about it constantly.”
“Yeah. Astro-Boy, they called you.”
“Rumer anyway. You want to hear this, Sixtus? I don't want to bore you, but maybe it'll help us get past you thinking I ran away from Elizabeth.”
“It's not boring me, Zeb. Go on,” Sixtus growled.
Zeb closed his eyes and thought back many years. He remembered how Guy Chamberlain, his NASA guru and one of the first space pilots to focus America's vision on the stars, had changed his life. “Well, I applied to the agency, and they hired me. I thought that was enough of a dream—I traded in wanting to be an astronaut and got practical…”
“The satellite photography.”
“Right. And then, one day, this old astronaut— Guy—told me, ‘Zeb, anyone who wants a reason to go into space can find one. That's what the station's for: missions. Ecologists, oceanographers, even economists go up“’
“Economists?” Sixtus snorted with disbelief.
“Sure. They study the western plains—the production of grain—to forecast for the Chicago grain and corn futures markets.”
“They could do it just as well from solid ground.”
“Maybe so, but they want to see firsthand. And so did I,” Zeb said, his defenses rising.
Zeb had been among the eight groups of pilots and mission specialists added to NASA since 1979—his class of fifteen had joined in 1987. With his better than 20/20 vision, his 140/90 blood pressure, and his height falling just under six feet, he was an acceptable candidate.
He joined other civilians as well as military applicants to the Astronaut Candidate Program. Classes at the Johnson Space Center in Houston included shuttle systems, basic science and technology, math, geology, meteorology, guidance and navigation, oceanography, orbital dynamics, physics, sea survival, scuba diving, space suits, and his beloved astronomy.
Completing military water survival, he became scuba qualified in preparation for extravehicular training. He had to swim three lengths of a twenty-five-meter pool in flight suit and tennis shoes. His instructors exposed him to problems associated with high—hyperbaric—and low—hypobaric—atmospheric pressures in altitude chambers. In a modified KC-135 aircraft, he experienced periods of weightlessness and was exposed to the microgravity of space flight.
He had formal training in the SST—single systems trainer. He worked on all areas of shuttle operations: prelaunch, ascent, orbit, entry, and landing. He became proficient in payload operation, deployment, retrieval, maneuvers, and rendezvous. Zeb Mayhew was making his dreams come true. He was becoming an astronaut. He told all this to Sixtus, still loving to tell the story. He had loved space; he had once loved his work. When he was finished, he leaned back, looking Sixtus in the eye.
“Nice story,” Sixtus said. “You're well trained.”
“It might not mean anything to you, but it does to me.”
“So, what you're saying is, you weren't trying to escape her? It just came with the ter
ritory?”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes,” Sixtus said, breathing hard, obviously going somewhere with this.
“It came with the territory,” Zeb said, the old shame kicking in.
“So did Michael—he came with the territory too.”
“You can think what you want, but I love Michael more than anything. I wanted…” Zeb trailed off, clenching his fists because he wanted to punch Sixtus in the mouth for even questioning his behavior as a father. “I want him to be proud of me.”
“And I'm sure he was. Is.”
“I had to work,” Zeb said, pissed off at himself for defending his life to his ex-father-in-law. “The job was demanding, I know. The marriage was unhappy—from the start. What do you want me to say? But I saw Michael whenever I could. Zee filmed at sets far from L.A., and she'd usually take him with her.”
“The jet-set life,” Sixtus said mildly.
“You weren't there,” Zeb said.
“No—you made sure of that.”
Zeb bit his tongue—the frustration and fury were so great, he wanted to fight the old man here and now. It was your daughter, he wanted to say.
Zeb had given up more chances than Sixtus would ever know to make sure his son was safe and cared for. He had regularly driven Elizabeth to rehab after their breakup because he felt so guilty for marrying her in the first place. With Michael six, frantic with worry about his mother, Zeb had turned down chances to travel to Russia, for joint cooperation meetings, to other conferences too numerous to recall through the years.
“What do you want me to say? That I should have passed up every opportunity? That I should have stayed home, been a househusband?”
“Things might be different for your son if you had.”
Zeb drew a deep breath. From the small porch, he could see his son watching the girl pull her lobster pots. Michael sat still, arms wrapped around his knees, at the edge of the sea. There were always stray days in the middle—when Zeb had a launch and Elizabeth had not quite returned, when Michael would be left with the baby-sitter. Now, watching Michael, pain shot into Zeb's heart as he remembered his son sitting like that on their front steps, waiting for his parents to come home.
